


Sweet Treats

by crimsoncomradeposts



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25078744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsoncomradeposts/pseuds/crimsoncomradeposts
Summary: You know he always does find time, whether it’s before the start of his route every morning, during his lunch breaks, or after his shift when he’s home and tucked away in the basement. He likes telling you about the times that he writes, though, and you love nothing more than to hear him go on and on about it. It’s the one time he really, truly loves to talk.
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Sweet Treats

The light of the early morning sun pours in through the windows, bathing every surface in its golden glow while you sit atop the counter, legs dangling over the edge while your finger dips into the bowl of freshly whipped frosting. You’re in the midst of bringing your finger up to your mouth to taste it when you hear the familiar shuffling of Paterson’s bare feet against the hardwood floor of the hallway. When he rounds the corner to step into the kitchen to come find you, he spots you just as you’ve removed your finger from your mouth, the digit now clean and devoid of any frosting.

Your head swivels to watch him while he shuffles past the threshold to step into the room, his shoulders hunched and arms folded across his chest. He’s in nothing but his usual sleep attire: a plain white t-shirt and a pair of boxers. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, your arms outstretching to signal that you want him near. Paterson’s all too happy to oblige, the shuffling of his feet only picking up speed the closer he gets to you.

“Morning,” you whisper to him when he steps between your parted legs, arms wrapping around his broad frame.

His sleepiness is still very much evident in the way he squints, eyes blinking as if to try and rid himself of the grogginess that still plagues him. “Morning,” he replies, leaning in towards you. His own arms drop down away from his chest to wrap around you just when he closes the gap to press his lips to yours. The kiss is short, sweet; it’s everything that Paterson is, and when he presses it to your mouth, his shoulders instantly lose any and all tension they once held.

You hum against his lips, breaking away only when you think of the frosting. “Oh! Speaking of, I want you to try this.” Only one of your hands drops away from him, the other still holding him close as you twist in his hold to reach for the bowl nearby, dipping your finger into the frosting to gather up enough for a taste. Lifting your hand, you bring your finger up to the same level as his mouth, holding it in place to allow him to lean in and taste for himself.

Paterson does just that, his lips enveloping your finger, tongue sweeping along the pad of it to lick away the frosting with a soft hum of appreciation. Slowly, you pull your finger from his mouth, your hand lowering to grasp at the side of his shirt, tugging him forward just enough to capture his lips with your own. He’s quick to take the cue, his tongue sweeping along your lower lip to beg for entry. You’re all too happy to oblige, your lips parting to allow his tongue to delve into your mouth, the sweet taste of the buttercream filling your senses only briefly before he breaks the kiss to pull away with a thoughtful hum.

“I wrote you something,” he says softly, brows creased with that familiar look of self consciousness. He’s always so hesitant to read his works aloud, even despite the fact that you’ve been nothing but supportive of his writing.

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips, curling them upward whilst you lift a hand to gently card your fingers through his hair, watching as pieces of it fall back into his face. “You did?” He gives a gentle nod when your hand drops down to trace the line of his jaw before it settles against the side of his neck. “When did you find the time?”

You know he always does find time, whether it’s before the start of his route every morning, during his lunch breaks, or after his shift when he’s home and tucked away in the basement. He likes telling you about the times that he writes, though, and you love nothing more than to hear him go on and on about it. It’s the one time he really, truly loves to talk.

“On my lunch break. I went to the falls and took up a spot on the bench. I know how much you love going there, so they always make me think of you. Makes it easier for me to write about you when I’m there.”

You know that. Of course you do. It isn’t the first time that he’s told you as much, but you never get tired of hearing it, and Paterson never tires of telling you. “Will you read it for me now? Please?”

Paterson smiles, his head nodding just as he releases you from his hold, taking a step back in preparation of retrieving his book. “Meet me in the living room?”

Your gaze slides to the timer on the oven, noting that you have more than enough time before the cake will be finished baking. When your attention returns to Paterson, you give a nod of your own. It isn’t until he steps out of the kitchen that you slide down off of the counter and make your way through the small home to settle down onto the comfy love seat, legs tucked up under you while you wait for his return. He isn’t gone long, of course, his excitement getting the better of him.

When Paterson returns it’s with his little book of poems held firmly between his hands. He takes a seat beside you, body turned to face you just enough as he flips through the book to get to the correct page. His jaw works, swallowing thickly as he steels his nerves. You reach for him then, settle a hand atop his knee in reassurance and offer him a smile which he’s quick to return.

“Sugar,” he starts, hesitating when his eyes leave the page to look over at your still smiling face. His gaze flits back down to the page to continue reading. “My sweet sugar. What a sweet treat it is to return home to your smiling face every day. Tired. Exhausted, I am. But you, my lovely little confection. Just one kiss, one taste is all I need. I am revitalized.”

“Pat.” His name is accompanied with a heartening smile, and when he shuts his book, you reach for it to gently pull it from his hands. You move to climb onto his lap, setting the book down onto the end table next to the couch just before your arms loop around his neck. “That was beautiful. Thank you.”

Paterson smiles, a blush blooming outward from the apples of his cheeks and crawling down his neck towards his chest. When his hands come to rest on your hips, you lean in to press a chaste kiss to his lip. “Truly. Thank you.”

He hums, happy that you’ve enjoyed yet another one of his poems. When he leans in to steal another kiss, the timer to the oven sounds, effectively ruining the perfect little moment between you. “Come on,” you say, determined not to let this moment end here. Sliding off of his lap, you take his hand and lead him up from the couch. “You can help me with the cake.”

The both of you know that he won’t do much aside from eat more of the frosting, but any little moment you can share together is perfectly fine with you.


End file.
